


mardi a lundi

by listentotheink



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 08:09:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/listentotheink/pseuds/listentotheink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis is a struggling writer living in Paris when he meets Harry Styles, a popstar making his way towards international success. They meet on a Tuesday, Harry leaves the next Monday. In that time, they fall in love and put a lock on the Love Lock bridge before Harry leaves, promising to return. But what happens in five years time when Harry comes back and Louis has a girlfriend?</p>
            </blockquote>





	mardi a lundi

The sun streams through his curtains and warms his back and eyelids. He always sleeps this way. On his stomach, head turned towards the window, arms around his pillow, legs splayed out on his bed just enough that he won’t be uncomfortable but just far enough he feels the pull between them every morning when he wakes. And he never pulls the blinds on his window. Why would he? The first thing he sees every morning is the Eiffel Tower, and he doesn’t know why anyone would want to pass up that view for a bit of old fabric covering slats of wood. Even when it rains, he leaves the blinds up, and sometimes he cracks the window so he can listen to the soft splashes as it hits the ground three stories below his window. There’s just something... magical about Paris when it rains. Something that nothing else in the world could compare to. He doesn’t know what it is, but it was part of what attracted him to the city in the first place.

There’s just something about the wet streets that gets to him. That makes his fingers itch to find a pen and a paper to try and write down what he thinks of it. But the words can’t come, because it’s just something there aren’t words for. One of the things in life that can’t be described. Like when you find that perfect crepe with nutella and strawberries, or the pair of jeans that fit just right. Or when you put on your favorite shirt and just revel in the way it feels against your skin, the way the fabric moves with you. The way your heart feels empty after you’ve finished your favorite novel, even though you’ve read it one hundred times before... That’s how he would describe Paris when it rains. And Paris when it rains at night... There’s no feeling that could even compare. The way the lights glow off the pavement, how the air is clean instead of the usual city smell. That’s his favorite time to take a stroll. When it’s just sprinkling and the lights are glowing and the clouds move on and the stars shine through. He always seems to run into couples on nights like that. Walking along the Seine with their arms around each other, looking across to the north of the river, even though most of the romantic things about Paris ( _L’Arc De Triomphe_ , the _Musee D’Orsay_ , _Le Louvre_ and the Eiffel Tower) were all to the south, and that’s where the tourists would be. Visiting the beauty of Paris when the true beauty isn’t in those things. At least, he doesn’t think so.

But for now, there is the steady hum of chatter streaming through his window, telling him that it’s time for his morning to begin, and then there is a cold nose on his cheek as his eyes flutter open.

“Can always count on you to wake me, Bax." He says, his voice wrecked and sleep filled as his kitten licks his nose softly. He pats the white and grey ball of fluff on the head gently before flipping over on his back and staring at his ceiling for a moment. It’s Tuesday, and that means he has to work, but not until late afternoon. So he has a few hours to do whatever he wants.

So he sits up, perches Baxter on his shoulder and patters into the kitchen to make himself some Yorkshire and two pieces of toast. His flat is. Well, it’s what you would expect for a single, struggling writer living alone in Paris. He’s got a bookshelf built around his window that came with the flat, and it’s full with all of the greatest writers of in history. He took pride in his book collection, and had his own sign out system when he had been at home in Doncaster. But now, the books just sit on the shelves, most of them hardcover, and most of them first editions. He’s also got a squishy armchair where he likes to curl up and read, and a couch for when he has company. There’s a coffee table with papers scattered across it. A pen sits on a pile of them, and a soiled tea mug has left a ring-shaped stain on the wood. There’s a small TV in the corner, covered in dust. Because if he’s going to listen to anything while he works, it’s going to be some soft music, not shit telly.

His little breezeway is messy, and shoes are scattered in front of the door. Toms. Only Toms. He won’t wear anything else. He never has, not since he turned sixteen. And if that means he has to order them offline and have them delivered to him. So be it. Those are what he’s most comfortable in, so that’s what he wears.

His kitchen is probably the worst, though. He’s got dishes he’s too lazy to do piling up in his sink. He’s got tea mugs scattered around the counter, and a stack of newspapers on the floor that he always intends to recycle but never remembers to. They’re in French (obviously) and he’s okay speaking it. But he hates reading it. He’s rubbish at it, unless it’s on a restaurant menu. But since he orders the same thing every time he goes out, it’s not that hard for him to remember the words.

There are three things taped to his fridge. A picture of his sisters and himself at a Man U game when he was eighteen, a list of specific feeding instructions for Baxter if he leaves for longer than a day and has to have someone come look after him, and a list of phone numbers where he can be reached. And it’s evenly spaced on the door, with little bits of tape on each corner. Other than that, there’s nothing really out of the ordinary.

So he takes out his toaster, slices two pieces of day-old bread for toast, presses the lever down, and fills a kettle to make himself a cuppa. Baxter watches from his perch, and noses Louis’ cheek gently which Louis knows is him asking for a snack of some sort. Cheese usually, if Louis has any. He prefers Brie.

“Not today, Bax.” Louis says, scooping the kitten off his shoulder and setting him on the counter. “I haven’t had time to go to the _fromagerie_ yet. You’ll have to wait until I get home tonight. Unless you want to hide in the pocket of my jacket and go with me. But you have to be quiet this time. Last time we got caught.”

Baxter weaves between his legs and purs. Louis just sighs as the kettle boils and his toast pops up.

“Let me eat, and then we’ll go.”

 

If there’s another thing he loves about Paris, it’s the markets, the specialty shops. The _petit patisseries_ and _la boucherie_. _La fromagerie_ and _la boulangerie._.. He loves that all of his food can be bought fresh instead of all of the processed garbage that he had when he lived in England. He loves that he can tuck his _petit chat_ into his pocket and feed him a bit of a baguette he buys to munch on while he walks up and down the streets, looking in the shop windows. Likes watching women pull their little carts behind them as they do their morning shopping, perhaps preparing for a large family dinner that night. Everything about the place holds magic. Holds little details that he stores in his head for later use.

When he finishes his shopping, he heads back to his flat to _prendre une douche_ and fix his hair before dressing in the black and gold polo he’s required to wear to work. It looks tacky, and the pants he wears are unflattering, but he makes it work (he can make anything work, if he’s honest with himself). He says a quick goodbye to Bax, and then he’s back walking down the street to the bookshop he works at. He was lucky to get the job at _Tourne la page, s.v.p_. soon after he moved to Paris, and since he has lived in the city for two years and still works there, it really says something about it.

He walks into the shop and the bell lets out a quiet jingle as the door shuts. Regine stands behind the counter and smiles through her long, dark curls when she sees him. He offers a tired smile in return and takes his place behind the counter next to her, writing the time he came in on the “ _fiche de pointage_ ” that their boss has instead of a computer where he can just type in a code and be clocked in. The store has been in the city since the twenties, and that’s how it had been run, then. The current owner’s father had been the one to open it, and he didn’t want to change anything from the way his father had run things. So they write down when they come in, when they go on break, when they come back, and when they leave before signing their name next to it. _Entree, Exiter, le temps de pause, revenir de temps de pause_.. It was something Louis is used to. Something that has become routine, and he doesn’t mind it.

“ _Bonjour_ , Louis!” Regine says, still smiling as he picks up a box. It’s full of books that need to be put on the shelves, and even though there aren’t many places they can go because the shop is so small, he still doesn’t like the task.

“ _Bonjour_.” he returns as he walks to the fiction aisle, picking the first book up out of the box.

“Did you have a long night with a friend?” she asks him. She knows no English, which isn’t a bad thing. Louis likes listening to himself speak French. He likes the way his voice sounds.

“If you mean my cat as a friend, then yes.” he supplies with a smile as he shifts some books onto a lower shelf to make room for some others. “He likes to play with my hair while I’m trying to sleep.”

“It must be so lonely for you, only having a cat for company.”

“We keep each other company, Baxter and me.” Louis says with a shrug. “He doesn’t yell at me, he listens when I read him my writing, and I can always tell if he likes it or not. And he likes to cuddle up by my shoulder every night while I’m asleep and wakes me up by poking me in the face.”

“I would jump out of my skin if I was woken by a cat.” Regine says. Her voice is farther away now, and Louis wonders if she had gone to get more books to alphabetize and shelve while he works on his own box.

The bell on the door jingles, and Louis looks but he doesn’t catch sight of the customer who walks in but he hears Regine say “ _parlez-vous Francais_?” and then a deep, rocky voice replies.

“ _Un petit pois_.”

“ _Donnez-mois un instant, s’il vous plait_.” Regine says, and Louis knows that she holds up a finger before she is turning the corner to the aisle he was lost in. “ _Pourriez-vous m’aider_ , Louis?”

Louis nods and sets his box down, careful not to stir any of the books into a different order before wiping his dusty hands on his trousers and moving towards the counter. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting to find when he turns the corner, but what he isn’t expecting is a tall, lanky, pale, teenager with brown, curly hair and tattoos inked up his left arm to be standing there awkwardly. He’s got his hands stuffed into the pocket of his jeans, and his black Pink Floyd t-shirt moves as he rocks back and forth from his heels to his toes, eyes moving around the shop rapidly, not sure where to start looking for... whatever it is he needs. Louis’ heart stutters when he sees that the boy’s eyes are green. And when their eyes lock, the other boy smiles, wide and toothy. And fuck all if he doesn’t have dimples that quirk up in his cheeks.

“Hello.” Louis says brightly. Regine leaves the sales floor to go back to the stockroom. She knows that Louis can handle more than one customer, no matter what language they speak. “Can I help you find something?”

“I... erm.” the boy starts. “I. I need a book.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place.” Louis says with a small laugh and a smile, encouraging the boy. “Any title in particular? I can show you where our books in English are, if you like?”

The boy nods and his curls bounce furiously around his face and into his eyes, and as Louis leads him to the shelf, he discovers that the boy is pigeon-toed, which he finds endearing instead of strange. Even though he trips over his feet a few times on the short journey.

“Do you have anything you’d recommend?”

Louis furs his brows in concentration and looks over the shelf, running his fingers over each book, pausing when his fingers land on Game of Thrones. It’s a gently used copy, but it will have to do for now.

“How old are you?” he asks the boy.

“Eighteen.” He responds quickly.

“Queasy at the sight or mention of blood?”

“No.”

“Have you had sex before?” he realizes when the boy coughs that it was probably a brash question, but if there’s one thing he knows about spoken word, it’s there’s no going back. That’s why he likes written word better. He can always go back and change something.

“Bit forward, isn’t it?” the boy asks. Louis just shrugs in response and the boy hesitates for the slightest of moments before answering. “I’m in a band, mate. You answer that question for me.”

“So that’s a yes.” Louis says, his heart sinking just a tiny bit. He doesn’t know why. He’s only just met this beautiful creature, knows nothing about him, and he’s saddened by the fact that the boy has had sex before when he has absolutely no reason to be. “I had to ask. Even though those curls would be perfect material to grip at whilst being fucked into a mattress.” he hands the book to the boy. “This is Game of Thrones, and the reason I asked the questions. There’s lots of death and sex in it, but it’s a great read. Definitely worth the time it takes. And it’s a series. We have all of them, so if you like the first one, there’s more to follow.”

And yeah, he did just say that he thinks the boy’s hair would be a great thing to hold onto while having sex. And with that came so many mental pictures, Louis was struggling to keep his breathing steady. He could only ever wonder what the boy would look like on his knees in front of him, sucking Louis down into his mouth. Could only wonder about the sounds he would make while Louis rimmed him until he cried. He had been told on more than one occasion that he did amazing things with his mouth. He shakes his head to get the images away, and then focuses back on the cover of the book.

“Sorry, did you just imply that you want me to fuck you into the mattress?” the boy says, his eyes twinkle as a smirk pulls at his lips.

“Teenagers are so horny, aren’t they?” Louis says, pretending to be offended. But really, he’s a bit surprised that the boy would be so forward with him, even though Louis himself was one of the most forward people on the face of the Earth and he had proven it only a moment ago. “I’ve just given you a book that everyone should read and all you heard was ‘fuck’. Typical.”

“So, you weren’t implying it.”

“In one way or another, I probably was.” Louis says as Harry takes the book from him. “But. I don’t fuck on the first date, and I think you should buy me a drink before we even consider dinner and a film.”

“Well. What if we combine the two?” the boy says, taking a step closer as Louis’ breath hitches in his throat as he’s pressed to the shelf behind him. He’s so fucked.

“I don’t even know your name.” he says quietly. The boy smirks and leans down, and for a moment Louis hopes that he’ll get to feel the boy’s lips against his own. Feel how soft they are, even with masculine ridges. But he doesn’t. He gets a shiver when the boy presses his lips to the spot under his ear.

“Harry.” he whispers hotly. “‘M name’s Harry.”

And yeah. Louis is totally, totally, one hundred bloody percent fucked.

 

But the trouble is, he doesn’t seem to mind. And he’s writing his cellphone number down on the top of Harry’s receipt, and smiling as he leaves and Regine shoots him a curious look. He just shakes his head at her and the rest of his shift passes far too slowly. Not that he would have gotten much done anyways. Not after that. Green eyes and chocolate curls keep flashing through his vision, and he can't stop himself from wondering what the hell that was, and if it meant anything. And if it did mean something, what exactly was he in for? He knew Harry all of ten minutes and he already has his number. What? Since when had Louis thrown all of his caution to the wind?

When his shift is over, he immediately takes his phone out of the pocket in the jacket he wore, only to see that he has (of course) a new text message from an unknown number. He doesn’t want to draw attention to himself, because he knows that if he reads it he will start giggling like a schoolgirl with a crush and even though he’s gay as the Queen’s Jubilee, he doesn’t need to act it. So, he waits until he’s safely inside flat and pouring a small dish of food for Baxter before he slides across the screen to unlock his phone, and reads the message.

 

Hiiii. It’s Harry. Won’t give you my last name yet, though. Don’t need you Googling me. x

 

Louis smirks into his hand and stifles a laugh as Baxter looks up at him with wide eyes. Louis just pats him on the head with his fingers before he stands and goes to his fridge for leftovers. Baxter is already finished with his food somehow, and he weaves in and out of Louis’ ankles as he crosses the kitchen to the table to set his milk down, and then crosses back to the counter so he can put his _quiche lorraine_ in the microwave. Baxter tires after a few journeys back and forth, so he does the only thing Louis’ expects of him.

He claws his way up Louis’ leg, up his shirt, and perches himself on Louis’ shoulder.

“You won’t be able to do that much longer, spud.” Louis says with a fondness in his voice that he only uses when talking to the cat. He used to have other reasons to use it, but those are all gone. Dust in the wind. Smoke in the air. And he can’t get the reasons back, even if he wanted them (something about bad relationships in the past always makes a bad taste form in his mouth. Usually from alcohol). Which he doesn’t, because he’s better off.

Baxter licks at his ear and Louis smiles, picking up his phone. He’s finally decided what to send back to Harry, after five minutes.

 

**To: Harry**

Cheeky. But if u thnk ‘m actually gnna wst my time Googling u. U hv alot 2 lrn about me. Don’t evn hv internet.

 

The response is almost instant, and Louis has to calm himself down before he slides the unlock button again to look at what the cheeky bastard has sent back to him. He takes a bite of his quiche, and burns the roof of his mouth when it’s too hot. So he pushes it away and pulls the phone closer.

 

**From: Harry**

I prefer confident. And no internet? What a shame. But I guess that means I’ll get to keep my identity a bit longer, fortunately. I feel quite like Hannah Montana. Is that odd? I guess that’s a bit off point. I knew you only want me for my body.

 

Louis barks out a laugh at how absolutely ridiculous the boy is. Hannah Montana, really? Is he serious? He had already given Louis his secret earlier in the day by telling him that he’s in a band. There isn’t much more for him to keep, is there? Louis rolls his eyes and taps out a reply before flipping the volume switch and pulling his dinner towards him again. It’s cooler this time. Good.

 

**From: Harry**

Where do you live?

 

He nearly chokes on his mouthful of water when he reads that. Here he was, thinking that he’s the most forward person on Earth, and he’s got this eighteen year old he’s only known a few hours asking for his address? He didn’t even know that the boy existed before today. He could be a stalker, or a weird-o. He could be a sex addict. He could be someone who pretends to be lovely before killing you in the backseat of their car and dumping your body in the river. He could even be a serial killer, that charms young, gay men into thinking that he wants sex before cutting their organs out and putting them on display like that scene in Silence of the Lambs. It was the only scene of the film he had watched, and he only watched it because he was in a screenwriting class at uni before he left to move to good old Paris.

 

**To: Harry**

R U mntl? ‘m nt jst gna gv u my address.

 

**From: Harry**

But I want to take you out.

 

Louis rolls his eyes. Of course he did. Of fucking course Harry wanted to take him out. Why wouldn’t he want to take him out after their small chat at _Tourner la page, s.v.p._? What else could have possibly been going through the boy’s head when Louis had asked him about sex. But. Then again, Louis is a complete liar if he says he didn’t want it either. He’s a liar, anyway. He’s a fiction writer. They always lie. Make up stories. Tell fools foolish ways to get to a man’s heart, make up these impossible worlds that people fall into so easily that it’s really not all that fair to the innocent reader. But he supposes that’s what makes readers want to keep reading. He knows that’s why he likes to read. He likes to read because he likes escaping his harsh reality.

His reality where he is barely making enough of a living to survive while he works on novel after novel, and mails the few he’s completed to publisher after publisher. Then stares at the other, half finished ones that sit on the shelf in his bedroom above his desk in their leather folders, wondering if he could ever possibly finish them, or if he just doesn’t have what it takes. Or wondering if his writer’s block is because his life is so boring, so fucking boring and average that he’s lacking the spark that he needs to complete them. Because it’s not that he’s lacking ideas. That’s not it at all. He has a whole file of ideas and prompts, and a journal he does writing exercises in every morning just to make sure his creativity stays flowing.

 

**To: Harry**

So u cn fuck me.

 

**From: Harry**

No.

 

**To: Harry**

Yes.

 

He shoves back from the table, then. That causes Baxter to tumble into his lap and he apologizes to the kitten, who looks at him with the same wide eyes he had had when Louis had found him in a rubbish bin two weeks prior. He looked scared and alone and Louis just happened to have a jacket with large pockets, so he tucked the kitten inside one of them, away from the rain, and returned to his flat, toweling him off and giving him a nice bowl of milk.

When he is sure that the kitten isn’t going to run away from him nervously, he stands and sets him on the ground and crosses to his balcony as he waits for a reply. His journal (a soft, caramel colored thing with a lock on it that his mate, Zayn, bought him for his birthday) sits on the glass table where he had left it the night before. It’s closed and locked, so none of the pages will come loose if the weather happens to turn to shit, and a black fountain pen sits on top of it. His fingers twitch as he reaches for it. He hasn’t written all day, having skipped his morning writing prompt to take the kitten for breakfast.

The prompt that Zayn had written for him stands out in sharp black against the cream of the pages and Louis smiles. He has been looking forward to this one for ages. _Write about someone finding a key. It reads. Do they know what it belongs to? Maybe it opens the neighbor’s car, or an old box, or even police handcuffs. Think of a creative scenario. What ends up happening to the protagonist, and the key itself?_

His phone goes off just as he uncaps his pen and sets it to the page, a drop of black stains the cream and he sighs. That’s one of his pet peeves, when the ink runs.

 

**From: Harry**

No.

 

He simply taps out the same response ‘Yes’ and pockets his phone, watching as Baxter carefully jumps up onto the railing that guards the edge of the balcony. Louis watches a few people walk by on the street below, but only for a moment before he sets his pen to the page again and begins to write.

 _She finds the key hanging from a branch._ He writes, in carefully practiced hand. He always had written his stories on paper, and then typed them into a computer. It was how he liked to operate, so he knew that he needed to be able to read his own writing if he was going to continue to do so for the remainder of his time as a writer. He rubs a hand over his face before he continues. _It’s dangling, blowing in the breeze, tied there by a satin ribbon. It was too convenient, so she knew that someone had to have placed it there to be found. And it was a rusted, brass skeleton key. But what it led to, she had no idea. She had only happened upon this key by chance, having been chasing a rabbit down a path in the woods, the leaves crunching under her boots. Her skirts gathering fresh mud from the ground. Her mother was certainly going to scold her for that when she got home, but for now she wasn’t thinking about that. She was thinking about how curious it was to find a key hanging from a branch. No note, no explanation as to why it was there.. It just was._

He doesn’t realize that his phone has gone off until he’s filled three pages with a short story about the girl and her adventure through the door the key unlocked. That’s something he likes about when he writes. He gets completely lost in whatever he’s thinking, whatever he’s scratching onto the page. Five minutes or five hours could pass by and he would never even really know because he just doesn’t pay attention to anything outside of the world he’s creating.

 

**From: Harry**

Alright. You caught me. But in all seriousness here, I’d like to talk to you, as well. You seem quite lovely, and I’m not a creep. I swear. You can ask my followers on Twitter. All I do is post vines of my mum’s cat, and people who work for my management company.

 

**To: Harry**

Yeh. nt creepy @ all.

 

But he types his address out and presses send without thinking, anyway. And then his mind weighs out the gravity of what he’s just done, and he goes into a panic. What the fuck had he just done?

 

They end up going to a restaurant a few blocks away from Louis’ flat. They don’t hold hands, they just walk side by side, jackets wrapped around them, protecting them from the November air. The gentle breeze ruffles Louis’ quiff, and on some days he would mind. But today he is walking down _Rue Notre-Dame des Champs_ with Harry, a beautiful boy that came once in a lifetime, so it’s just. It’s different.

He’s booked them a table in the back corner of _Lucernaire_ , a restaurant Louis has only dreamed of being able to go to. He says that it’s for privacy, just in case he gets recognized and Louis asks him how likely that is and he responds with a simple “not very”. So Louis takes off his jacket and makes himself comfortable at the table. Harry starts asking him pointless questions and Louis answers them as best he can, telling him his favorite color, all about his home in Doncaster, how his best mate is from Bradford and teaches English at a secondary school in Paris. He tells him that yes, he’s gay, and no, he’s not completely open about it with people because he’d had horrible past experiences before, and that for some reason Harry puts him at ease. Tells Harry that he doesn’t understand why that is, but he’ll go with it for now. He actually does most of the talking while Harry watches, completely entranced by seemingly every word Louis says as he chatters away. But he learns some things about Harry as well.

He learns that he has a sister, a step dad and a mum, and he’s from Holmes Chapel in Cheshire, which is only an hour away from Doncaster. Learns that he misses his cat, Dusty, and the bakery he works at the most when he’s away. Says that he won the X Factor in two thousand and ten, and that his best mates from home play instruments for him. Tells Louis that he’s only in Paris for a week and has two concerts and three interviews that he has to go to, but other than that he’s free and wants to be a tourist for a little while. Then a waitress comes and Louis orders for both of them because Harry is “shit at French and only wants a cheeseburger. For the love of god do they have to have fancy names for everything around here?” They chat and laugh while Louis eats his _croque-monsieur avec les frites_ and by the end of their meal Louis offers to be a tour guide for him on Friday afternoon when Harry is done with his interview.

Harry readily accepts and he pays the bill, and the next thing Louis knows, Harry has him pressed up against the door to his flat, lips travelling down his neck, hands at his hips. Louis unlocks his door with shaking hands and they stagger into his flat, Harry’s lips pressed against his as Louis pushes his jacket off of his arms and Harry tosses it out on the couch. Baxter lets out an indignant hiss when it covers his tiny white body, but Louis doesn’t notice. Doesn’t stop pulling at the buttons on Harry’s shirt, doesn’t stop to uncover the kitten who is buried under the material of Harry’s blazer. He just lets out a frustrated groan, muffled by Harry’s mouth and pulls him backwards, down the hall and into his bedroom.

He collapses onto his bed and Harry crawls up the length of the mattress to him, covering Louis’ body with his own and fuck, it’s been so long since he’s done this. Since he’s felt that electricity pumping through his veins. The adrenaline that lets him know he is, in fact, alive with a beating, racing heart. Harry presses their crotches together and Louis lets out a satisfied gasp, rutting up against Harry to get the friction he so desperately craves as Harry pulls the zip on his trousers and attacks Louis’ neck with kisses.

“Bloody fucking hell.” Louis half gasps, half moans. He scratches his fingers down Harry’s back and Harry lets out a hiss, pressing against Louis harder and biting under his ear. “H-Harry. Just bloody well get on with it. Jesus.”

Harry lets out a throaty chuckle and palms Louis through his trousers. Louis arches up into Harry’s hand, desperate now. He needs this. He fucking needs this and Harry is in the process of ruining him, and that’s just not fair. Not when he’s leaving in a week and Louis is already so attached to him that he’s definitely going to lose it when he says goodbye.

Harry takes his time with Louis, though. No matter how much he begs him to just get on with it, Harry goes slow. Opens him carefully, sucks him down and bobs his head in time with his fingers. Presses his face in between Louis’ legs as if he knows exactly how much Louis loves to be rimmed (almost as much as he likes rimming others), even though there’s no possible way he could. And then finally, finally, Harry is inside him and Louis is seeing stars before he even orgasms. There’s just something about the way Harry is moving and responding to every sound Louis makes that has him losing control, but keeping it all at once. Something about that makes it feel electric and Harry knows what he needs and wants, and the boy is all arms and chest above him.

Louis’ hands grip at Harry’s arms, his fingernails dig into his biceps, leaving marks on the stretches of skin that are tattoo free before his hands travel down Harry’s back. And streams of curses are coming out of his mouth, sounding like one, big, jumbled “ohharryfuckrightthereyesshitthereagainpleasepleaseplease” and he’s biting at Harry’s lips, their breathing ragged and their bodies coated in sweat that makes the skin-on-skin drag that much easier. And this is the best fucking sex Louis has ever had in his entire life and they’ve got this rhythm that would never be able to be matched by another. And Harry is getting sloppy and Louis is close to his own release and he's gripping at the sheets, Harry's hair, anything that he can hold and pull close as he rocks through his orgasm and Harry shudders through his own less than four thrusts later. Louis has never done that before. Come untouched.

When it’s over and Harry collapses onto Louis’ chest as slowly as he can, reaching down to pull out carefully, Louis knows that there’s no way in hell he won’t be feeling it in the morning. Won’t be walking right for the next two days at least. Knows there's no going back now.

“Hope you don’t mind, I like a cuddle afterwards.” Harry says, reaching for one of his socks he had thrown to the floor to wipe spunk off of Louis’ chest. Louis just shakes his head, too tired to argue, before pulling the blankets around them and moving backwards so he’s cradled against Harry’s chest.

“Nothing wrong with a good cuddle.” He mumbles. Except in this case, there totally is. But he’s willing to overlook that if it means he gets to stay with Harry for a few hours more before he wakes and his life goes back to normal. The way it was before he met this beautiful boy who made him stop and stare. Back to working in the bookshop where average looking men came in on a regular basis but no one as stunning as Harry.

He falls asleep looking out the window at the Eiffel Tower, it’s always lit up at night and the lights make it look almost golden.

 

When he wakes the next morning, it’s to the sun shining through his window just like the previous day. Baxter swats at his nose with a tiny paw, and for a moment, Louis thinks that it was all a dream. Just a beautiful dream where he met and had dinner with Harry, threw his “no sex on the first day” rule out the window, and had the most incredible night of fucking he’s ever had. But then he shifts and the pain in his bum is very, very real, and there is a heavy weight around his waist and hot breaths puffing into the back of his neck. Suddenly he feels hot under the blankets, and he needs to break free but he can’t because he’s tangled in someone who he wasn’t expecting to still be here when he woke up. He was hoping that Harry would be gone, even if it was only to preserve the morning after awkwardness that always happened. But he’s not gone. He is still here and last night is still very, very, real and that’s suffocating him.

So, with an almighty shove, he pushes Harry away from him. The younger boy grunts in his sleep, but he just rolls away, his back facing towards Louis, now. There are severe red scratches running down it, criss-crossing and fresh and Louis can’t help but feel a little chuffed at the fact that he put them there. But he still needs to get out. Needs to shower. Needs to think. So he hobbles his way into the bathroom slowly, Baxter watches him all the way, his eyes asking what all the yelling was the night before and if it had anything to do with why Louis is limping.

“Not now, Bax.” Louis says, shutting the door and flipping the lock. He turns the water on to as hot as it will go, and even then it’s not hot enough. He still smells like sex and his hair is tousled and it all washes down the drain, his remaining sanity following it along.

He has only just met Harry, and he’s slept with him after less than twenty four hours. But he is completely gone for the lad. Gone for his eyes, his dimples, his smile, his laugh. The way he let his hand linger over Louis’ at dinner the night before, the way he listened to Louis intently when anyone else would have just dropped out after a few moments. He doesn’t know what’s happening, and when he thinks about it, it only makes him more confused. He doesn’t like when things are out of his control (and this clearly is). That’s part of the reason he’s a writer, even though his characters control his pen and do what they want most of the time, if they get too crazy he can always go back and make them change their ways. But this. This is real life. This is his real life. And he’s feeling things for a curly haired, gay, musician.

If you had told him Tuesday morning that that was going to happen, he would have laughed in your face.

When he steps out of the shower and wraps a towel around himself, he brushes his teeth quickly before opening the door again. Baxter still sits there, and stares at him, blinking twice before Louis relents and picks him up, cradling him in his hands.

“Sorry, mate.” he says. “It was a long night.”

Baxter cuddles into his hand and Louis smiles, walking through his bedroom door to find Harry gone. He sighs, half in relief and half in sadness. He didn’t want the boy to go. Not really. He dresses quickly, red trousers and a white t-shirt will do for a lazy day in. It’s sunny now, but the weather on his phone is telling him that it’s going to rain and even though he loves the rain, he’s just not feeling it today. So he’s prepared to laze about on the couch, maybe work on one of the many manuscripts he’s writing, read some of the rejection letters and criticisms he got from various publishers, and then feel sorry for himself and curl back up with a cuppa and a blanket to watch crap telly.

But when he walks into his living room, he realizes that that’s not what he’s going to be doing today, because Harry is sitting on the couch, two plates of a full english on the table with steaming cups of tea in front of the plates. And yeah, Louis thinks he might be a little bit in love.

“In the twenty minutes I was in the shower and getting dressed, you made a full english for two, plated it, and made tea?” Louis laughs. Harry turns around to face him with a wide grin. “Would it be utterly disturbing if I say I might be a little bit in love with you and it’s been less than a full day?”

“I had to repay you somehow.” Harry says, still smiling. “Besides, I didn’t want to just leave without saying goodbye. That would have been rude. Plus I wanted to see if I could come back later, after my interview that I have today. I don’t have to. If you just want a fuck and dump, that’s okay. I just. I like you.”

“You like my arse.” Louis mumbles, taking a sip of his tea. No sugar, no milk. Perfect.

“I wasn’t sure how you take it.” Harry says, ignoring the comment about Louis’ arse. Maybe he just hadn’t heard it. “So I left it alone. Is that alright?”

“That’s actually how I take tea, thanks.” Louis says with a smile. “I don’t believe that tea should be ruined with added ingredients. I think it’s perfect just the way it is. And yeah, you can come back later. Just call when you’re outside and I’ll buzz you in. I’m not going out today. Want to have a bit of a lie in.”

“Wish I could do that.” Harry says. There’s an edge of envy to his voice and Louis offers him a smile.

“Yeah, but you’re living your dream. Some sacrifices have to be made to do that, yeah?”

“That’s definitely something a writer would say.” Harry says through a mouthful of egg with a shake of his head. “You are definitely a writer.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell by the countless notebooks and pens laying about.” Louis says fondly, with only a touch of sarcasm. He’s talking to Harry in his Baxter Voice and that scared him just a bit. “You better go, pop star. Don’t want to be late.”

“I’ll only be gone a couple hours.” he says, and then, in a very domesticated way, he kisses Louis goodbye and heads out the door. And Louis wonders how this is even happening.

He curls up on the couch with his pen and journal and tucks a blanket around his legs, beginning to write as soon as he’s comfortable. He’s almost finished with his short story about the girl who found the key, and he wants to submit it to literary magazines back in London it at all possible. But that’s going to take a lot longer than he wants it to, because he has to go to the local _bibliothèque_ to use a computer and type it all. Then he reads over it about five more times before going and making changes. He wishes that he just had a laptop, or even a typewriter to eliminate the trip to the library. Then he would have the whole thing done by the time Harry leaves on Monday. Maybe he would even send a copy with him.

He doesn’t realize he falls asleep until he hears his phone start to ring and he wakes reluctantly, only to realize that it’s Harry and he needs to buzz him in.

“Cheeky fucking twat.” he says into the phone, standing to walk to the button that will buzz Harry in. He feels a sharp pain in his bum and he groans softly.

“Nice to speak with you too.” Harry says in reply, a smile in his voice. “Come let me in, yeah?”

“What if I don’t want to? I’m still sore from last night, you know. I’m not ready for another go round with a dick that size.”

“I’ve brought chinese.”

“That’s my weakness.” he replies with a whine, pressing the button and moving to unlock the door to his flat. For a moment he wonders why he didn’t leave it unlocked in the first place. Usually when he’s home it’s wide open for anyone to come in. Unless he’s had a shit day, then he doesn’t feel like anyone but Zayn should be subject to his wrath. “Come on up, the door’s open.”

The phone cuts off and a few minutes later, Harry is coming through the door while Louis rubs at his fingers and his wrist. Writer’s cramp is even worse than his trips to the library for the computer, he decides. Harry tilts his head to the side and looks at Louis curiously while he sets the bags full of take away boxes onto the kitchen table.

“Writer’s cramp.” Louis offers, reaching into his cupboard for plates while Harry finds them forks. “I need a bloody typewriter. It’d make my life so much easier.”

“Why don’t you just buy one?” Harry asks, sitting at the table. “Or a laptop? Laptops can be used for more.”

“I uh.” Louis says, dishing himself wontons and fried rice with an egg roll. “I can’t afford internet. And. A laptop is a nice thought and everything, but I’d rather be able to afford to live. Whatever money I don’t spend on bills goes to food and clothes and sometimes, films if I have enough to treat myself. Living on minimum wage in Paris isn’t that fun. But. I make it work.”

He finishes with a shrug and Harry nods and digs into his lo mein. Louis misses the twinkle in his eye as he looks down and pushes his own food around his plate and Baxter crawls up his trousers and onto his lap.

“Only a little bit, Bax.” Louis says with a soft smile, taking a forkful of rice off his plate and setting it on the table in front of the kitten.

“You treat him like a king.” Harry remarks, absently.

“He’s the only family I really have here.” Louis says. “I mean. I have my mate, Zayn. And my friend Regine from the bookshop, but other than that, there really isn’t anyone or anything here for me. They’re all back in Donny. But I wouldn’t change my life at all. I love Paris. I’m happy here.”

“Do you miss it? In Donny, I mean.”

“Sometimes.” Louis admits. “But. I like it here more. I love Paris. I love being able to be here and be myself and not have to worry about what anyone else thinks of me. I feel so free here. Even if I’m not really open with my sexuality. There’s just this amazing feeling that comes with being able to walk down the street and not have to think about anything. And it’s a beautiful place. It’s where any struggling writer should come to get their inspiration.”

“Is that why you moved here?”

Louis nods. “Part of it. I mean. Since I moved here two years ago, I’ve finished two novels and started at least five others. It’s like a breath of fresh air, being here. And.. There’s something about Paris in the rain. It’s just. Magic.”

Harry nods as if he understands every word Louis has said with perfect clarity, when Louis isn’t sure he himself understands anything that he said. But he wonders if this person, this boy, he’s met only twenty four hours previously has already learned every corner of him and knows how to understand and interpret even the most confusing parts of him. It already feels like he’s known him his entire life, the way they settle in and are comfortable around each other. So. He just can’t help setting his mind to think that.

 

On Thursday, Harry calls Louis and he sounds winded, so Louis buzzes him in instantly, and Harry knocks on his door. He didn’t knock on Wednesday, and he had been out all morning. So Louis is naturally curious as to where he went. The boy has moved in with him for the week, apparently, and Louis can’t say he minds. The past two days, he’s woken up to a full English on the table, and a sleepy shock of curls pressing kisses all over his face instead of a cold nose and a swat of a paw.

He knows that what he’s doing is dangerous, but for now he can’t bring himself to care. He likes waking up with someone else in his bed too much. He likes Harry too much. He likes having warm arms around him, likes having someone cook him breakfast, likes having someone wash his hair for him... He just enjoys not being alone too much to realize that in four days, Harry will be gone and he’ll be back to being just as alone as before the curly haired lad had walked into his life and refused to leave.

“What the bloody hell?” Louis asks as Harry steps inside. He’s holding a package wrapped in a black rubbish bag so Louis can’t see what it is as he steps out of the way to let the taller boy pass. Baxter jumps up onto the coffee table to investigate as Harry sets the box down with a smug smile.

“Well go on, then.” Harry says, looking rather chuffed. “I know you’re curious.”

Louis nods and opens the bag slowly, pulls it down the sides of the box so he can read what it says on the cardboard. His eyes widen and he gasps.

Harry’s bought him a typewriter. A brand new typewriter, and three reams of paper for it. Louis honestly feels like he might cry because this is the best gift he’s ever gotten from anyone, let alone someone he’s just met (and wow he thinks about that a lot, how he’s only just met Harry) and he really, really, really thinks he might cry. He tries not to but the tears fall hot and fast, and Harry pulls him into his arms as Louis mutters an onslaught of “I can’t accept this. Don’t spend money on me. Why? Harry I really can’t accept” and it sounds like one word, he says it so fast. But Harry is just smiling and rubbing his back and he whispers that it’s not a big deal into his ear. Says he was happy to do it, wanted to do it. And Louis doesn’t understand because you don’t just go out and buy someone a typewriter and they cost so much money and Louis honestly didn’t even know they still made them until Harry walked in with one.

And then Harry is untangling his arms from around Louis and taking his hand. He leads him back to the bedroom and closes the door behind him, presses Louis up against the wall and ravishes him, kissing every inch until Louis is a blubbering mess beneath him. And he’s pulling Louis close under the blankets and kissing up and down his neck softly, tracing up and down Louis’ chest with his fingertips. They’re fucking, no. Not fucking. This feels different. This feels like making love, and Louis has never had that before, and he wonders if it’s too soon to be feeling like this. But then, after Harry has pulled out and tugged Louis close, Louis is asleep, lulled by the soothing feeling of Harry’s fingertips running up and down his spine.

Friday, Harry has the day off, so they play the tourist game and wander around Paris, holding hands and pressing soft kisses to each other’s lips, while Baxter meows indignantly from Louis’ pocket. And they smile and laugh and talk like lovers. Like the day is just a promise of forever instead of their time slipping away.

Louis brings him to _Le Louvre_ to see the Mona Lisa, because that’s a painting everyone needs to see. Then they go to the _Musee d’Orsay_ just to see the elaborate staircase that is the entrance. And Louis wishes he could write everything down. Write down the way Harry’s hand fits into his, and the way his scarf looks around his neck. The way his beanie sits on his hair and the way his eyes light up when they stop at _L’Arc du Triomphe_ before heading to the Eiffel Tower. Wants to write down how Harry’s eyes crinkle when he laughs, and try to find a specific shade of green that matches his eyes perfectly. The tiny sprinkling of freckles down his neck, the soft one to the right of his lips. Wants to write about how his lips feel on Louis’ and how it seems to set a fire inside him that could never be put out. How he’s got these dimples that would make anyone look like a child, but make him look absolutely sinful. How he can go from a drop dead Gucci model to a dorky ten year old in the matter of three seconds. How he makes Louis feel so alive and free and fresh and it’s like a new beginning for Louis, this day with Harry. But there aren’t enough words in the English or French languages for him to be able to do Harry any justice. He wouldn’t know where to begin, even if there were.

Would he start with the way his curls frame his face in this beautiful way, and are so soft and beautiful, and work his way down? Or would he start with how Harry’s personality makes him appear as though he’s glowing from head to toe? The way that his legs are so long and the way his toes curl in? The way his beanie makes his curls frame his face? And would he end with the explosive laughter that leaves Harry’s mouth when Louis says something funny? The way it starts as a loud bark and then calms down to a quieter, softer, beautiful sound that makes Louis’ stomach warm and his lips quirk up in a smile. He wants the feeling to stay forever. Wants to make the two of them work because it’s already so easy.

He takes him for a walk down the _Champs Elysee_ before they catch the underground and go to the Seine, just for a short walk as the sun begins to fade. And they kiss and laugh and Harry takes out his silly polaroid camera to take pictures of Louis and pictures of the both of them bundled close together and Louis lets Baxter out of his pocket to explore for a minute before getting paranoid that he’ll fall into the river and tucking him back inside.

They finish the night with sandwiches bought off a street cart on their walk back to Louis’ flat, and Louis let’s Baxter eat a piece of the chicken from his sandwich while Harry walks along beside him, tucking his hands into his pockets as they go. Louis threads his arm through Harry’s and Harry smiles down at him. Louis wonders, in what world was an eighteen year old taller than a twenty one year old? And in what world would he be able to find this boy, who already knows him so well, only to have him leave again? What world would he find someone who could make him so carefree and relaxed that he was kissing him in public, when he had never been that open about himself before? When he only ever actually told people that he is gay when he knew he could trust them not to take the piss. People like his mum, Zayn, Regine and his sisters. Not a stranger.

They don’t see the fans sneaking pictures of the two of them as they walk around, surrounded in a bubble of their own bliss. Louis doesn’t think about it until Harry gets a text from someone, and he shakes his head when Louis asks about it.

“Celebrity life.” Harry says with a smile and a shrug. And Louis just goes with it.

Harry unlocks the door of Louis’ flat for him, and they go back to Louis’ room after letting Bax out of his jacket and they cuddle and kiss and fuck long and slow. Louis doesn’t care that he’s sore from the last two days. Doesn’t care that when he can’t walk correctly for a week he’ll get laughed at. Because right now he has Harry and Harry has him and that’s what matters because it was a completely perfect day.

Saturday, Harry invites Louis to his final show in Paris when Louis is out of work for the night. Harry has been at the venue all day, probably explaining to everyone where he’s been. Louis was sure that his bandmates had questions, and his tour managers probably did too. Louis has no idea how all of that works, but he has wondered how Harry managed to get away without answering to anyone.

During his break he calls his mum and talks to her for a while, and then he calls Zayn to ask him if he wants to go to the concert with him so he doesn’t have to stand in the crowd alone. Zayn agrees, telling him that he watched Harry’s season of the X Factor and was a huge fan. Louis wonders aloud why Zayn has never said anything to him about it before, and Zayn says he didn’t know Louis would be getting it in with a musician. He then goes on to say that Harry’s guitar player, Liam has his fancy and Louis laughs, promises him a VIP access pass, and he thinks that Zayn might have fainted. They talk for another hour with Louis telling him the full story of how he met Harry, and what they’ve gotten up to, and then Zayn hangs up with a “It’s two p.m.? God! I’ve got to do my hair! See you!”

They get to the venue at half past five, and they go to the back entrance. Louis is let through once he gives his name, and he tells the security man, Paul, that he’s cleared a plus one with Harry and he leads them through a narrow hallway.

When Louis sees Harry, he’s in black jeans, a dark blue shirt that has three buttons undone so you can see his chest tattoos, and a fedora. He’s talking to someone just a touch shorter than him, and he looks completely focused on him. Louis is transfixed by it until he feels Zayn pulling on his sleeve.

“Oh my god, Lou, it’s him.” he whispers. God he’s acting like such a fangirl. “Harry Styles! And he’s talking to Liam Payne.”

“So Styles is his last name.” Louis says with a smile.

“What a slut.” Zayn mutters. “Didn’t even know his last name.”

“Can you blame me?” Louis says in protest. “Look at him, Zayn! He could have told me his name is Bartholomew Carrot hyphen Sprouts and I would have slept with him!”

Harry must hear his voice because he looks up from his conversation (which is, apparently, with Liam Payne) and catches sight of Louis. His smile lights up his whole fucking face and Louis suddenly feels his stomach start to flutter and it feels like his heart skips a few beats because he just. He’s beautiful, Harry is.

He struts over to Louis like a proud lion claiming his territory, (even though Louis is so far gone on Harry that Harry has nothing to prove to anyone because if he asked Louis to jump he would ask how high), and presses a kiss to Louis’ lips, slings an arm around his waist, pulls him close. His green eyes flit over Zayn, as if scouting competition. But Zayn is too busy watching Liam’s back as he walks away to even notice as Harry greets him with caution.

“This is my best mate, Zayn.” Louis says with a smile as Harry pulls him closer still. It seems like he’s jealous, and Louis can almost see why. Zayn is there. He’s always there with and for Louis, and Harry is leaving on Monday morning, being whisked away to Germany or something like that. Plus, Zayn is fit as fuck. He looks like he could be an Armani model, and he could be if he wanted to. He’s got perfect skin, a quiff that he makes sure is done and will stay perfect before he leaves his house, and he’s got high cheekbones that are accentuated even more when he smiles. But he likes teaching English too much to even think about trying to be a model, and Louis admires him for that.

Harry presses another kiss to Louis’ lips and holds out his hand to him. Zayn takes it with a smile.

“You must be Harry.” Zayn says with a smile. “Not only has Lou told me loads about you, but I listen to your music and stuff as well. I’m a fan.”

“Mostly of Liam, though.” Louis says. Harry sends Zayn a quirky grin while he looks at Louis with a look that clearly says “I’m going to fucking kill you” on his face.

“Is that so?” Harry says, smirking. Zayn coughs.

“I mean. Well. He-he’s quite fit, isn’t he? I mean. You are too but Liam. I mean Liam... Oh God. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Zayn covers his face and Louis barks a laugh before Harry figures out how to respond to the comment.

“Thanks, mate.” Harry says. “I think. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the others. And Liam.”

The last part is said with a little bit of a smirk as Harry leads them down a hallway to an auditorium that could sit about six thousand people. There were red velvet seats, and it reminded Louis much of the pictures of Radio City Music Hall he had seen before. There is a blonde boy playing the guitar, Liam is tinkling away on the piano, another boy sits at the drums, and another is tuning his bass.

“Hey lads!” Harry says, his arm still around Louis’ waist. The boys look up at Harry with a grin before they make their way to him. “This is Louis and Zayn. Babe, this is Josh, Sandy, Niall and Liam. Josh is my drummer, Niall plays guitar, Sandy plays bass and Liam plays piano and does my backing vocals.”

Louis notices that Liam’s eyes never leave Zayn, and they flick up and down quickly before a slow smile spreads across his face. Louis thinks that Zayn might faint as Liam steps up to him, saying a quiet hello before he leads Zayn over to his piano for a chat.

“They’ll get along just fine.” Harry says with a smile.

Sunday, Harry is still sleeping when Louis slips quietly out his front door in a pair of joggers, a jumper and a beanie. Harry is exhausted from the show before, and Louis knows that, so he lets him sleep as he makes a trip down to the local locksmith to buy a padlock and have it engraved. He also buys two eighteen inch chains to thread the keys through, and then he slips back into his apartment, curling under the covers with Harry and settling close to his chest.

“Lou?” Harry mumbles, his eyes open a crack.

“Just had to go get something, love.” Louis says, brushing the hair out of his eyes. “Go back to sleep, I’m here now.”

When Harry wakes a few hours later, and Louis watches him. Watches the way the green of his eyes brightens, the way he stretches and his back arches off the mattress like a cat. The way his dimples show when he sees the sunlight and smiles at the new day. The way his joints pop when he lifts his arms over his head. And again, Louis has the overwhelming urge to write it all down. But he has no paper within his immediate reach, so he has to leave it in his memory for some other time.

“Hello, love.” Harry says with a cheeky smile. “Do you have a plan for us today, or are we just going to laze about?

“Actually, there’s somewhere I want to take you.” Louis says with a smile. “So get dressed. We can get lunch on the way there.”

Harry nods in confusion and Louis smiles, presses a kiss to the younger boy’s head, and he rolls off the mattress and into the kitchen to put a jacket over his jumper, thinks that it looks cold outside. Baxter climbs up his leg and Louis smiles and tucks him into his pocket just as Harry emerges from his bedroom with a smile.

Louis brings him to the Love Bridge in Paris, and Harry’s eyes immediately widen when he sees the padlocks that line the chain-link fence. Louis produces the red lock he had bought earlier in the day, their initials carved into it and outlined in a heart.

“I thought..” he starts quietly. “We could put one here, yeah? I mean. I know it’s only been a week, and this is for true love. But. I think I might be a bit in love with you. And even if you don’t feel the same, we love each other at least in the friends way. So.”

Harry nods and watches as Louis clips the lock on the fence before he pulls him into a kiss, cupping Louis’ face in his gloved hands gently. Louis’ fingers go into Harry’s curls and he kisses back, not caring about any of the people watching, and he smiles against Harry’s lips. He pulls away after a few minutes, and pulls the key out of his pocket and strings it on a chain. He hands it to Harry, sets it in his hand, closes his fingers around it.

“Wear it whenever you like.” He says, pulling back his collar to show his own. “I’ll never take mine off.”

“After this is over..” Harry says quietly. “After I leave. I promise, I’m going to find you again. I don’t know how, and I don’t know when, but I will find you.”

 

Monday, Louis wakes up to an empty bed and a sore bum. Baxter is curled up on the pillow next to his shoulder, and it is raining outside. He has to work, and the last thing he wants to do is walk. But he knows he’s going to have to. He wonders if Harry has cooked breakfast yet, or if he was waiting for Louis to join him in the shower. But there is no smell of bacon coming from the kitchen, and the water isn’t running. And then he remembers that Harry is gone. So instead of rolling out of his bed like he should, he searches for his mobile and rings into work, feigning an illness before he curls back up in the jumper he’d fallen asleep in. Harry’s. Of course.

He falls back to sleep crying, with Baxter lying next to him faithfully while his body wracks with sobs.

When he wakes up again, it’s nearing noon, and his stomach is rumbling. Baxter has swatted him on the nose twice and Louis takes the hint before he gets up and walks to his kitchen to make himself his usual breakfast of toast. He wouldn’t be able to make a breakfast sandwich, or egg on toast, Not without setting his flat on fire. So he settles and stares at his teacup while the kettle boils, and he sighs before thinking about their week together, ending with the lock and the shared kisses and the cuddling.

He nearly drops his teacup when inspiration strikes. He takes the kettle off and smears butter and jam onto his toast before he jogs to his living room and finds a blank notebook and a pen. He scribbles mardi a lundi on the cover, and then he turns to the first page.

 _There’s something about the air in New York City._ He writes. _Something about the way the air smells like smog and soft pretzels, the way that every breath Daniel takes feels like it’s full of dreams waiting to come true, makes him feel like anything can happen._

 

He finishes the book in twelve months, and he sends it off to fifteen different publishers in both London and America. He gets letters back from fourteen of them, telling him that it was a good piece of writing, but not something they were looking for at that moment. But the fifteenth letter he gets, HarperCollins makes him an offer he can’t refuse, even if he wanted, and he’s a published author within another three months. Fifty thousand copies go on sale in England, and another one hundred thousand go on sale in America. It sparks a bit of controversy there because it’s a New York Times Bestseller and it’s about a gay couple, and there haven’t been many young adult novels about gay couples out there. But he’s getting amazing reviews from the likes of John Green, David Levithan, Maureen Johnson and Sarah Dessen, celebrities are tweeting about it and Louis is being swept up onto a book tour through America and his life is becoming a whirlwind.

He’s flown to America for two months  and he’s paid to be on Ellen and Jimmy Fallon and Tyra and Craig Ferguson and the first night he’s so nervous that his hands shake and he thinks “this is how Harry feels all the time”. And then he’s in the chair next to Jimmy Fallon’s desk and he’s answering questions about the book and if it’s got anything to do with Harry because pictures of the two of them in Paris had leaked all over the internet. And God, America has a thing for gossip. And his heart twists when he lies and says that it’s not. And he asks about the dedication which reads “this book is for you, about you. if you’re reading, you’ll know.” And he supposes that he shouldn’t have done that but he needed Harry to know without explicitly saying “to Harry” on the page. He’s skirting around his sexuality, using gender neutral pronouns and when they ask why he wrote about a gay character if he’s not gay, he just says “Just because a character is gay doesn’t mean the author is. Daniel was always meant to be gay. And so was Luke. That’s just how the idea formed in my mind.” And he’s eating dinner with John Green and they’re talking about their books and Louis has really only ever been able to dream about this day.

He gets paid £500,000 up front when his book hits stores. He sends £100,000 to his mum and sisters, so she can buy a more comfortable house for she and the girls, and he puts £200,000 into the bank before using the £100,000 he has left to buy _Tourner la Page s.v.p._ from Guy. He doesn’t change anything about the shop or the way it’s managed. He just gets to make more decisions than before, and if he’s honest, he’s wanted to own it since the day he started working there.

He gets a check in the mail every month for a cut of the profits made from each book sold, and from there he splits it into four piles. Mum, Bank, Bills, Spending. And it’s nice because he can afford to live a bit more comfortably than he was before, even though he refused to buy a new flat. He was comfortable in the one he was in, and it was home. He just buys a TV that he never watches, buys a laptop and gets an internet connection, even though he prefers to use the typewriter that Harry bought for him. And he buys pictures for his walls from an art gallery downtown, even though he only ever looks at the polaroid he and Harry took nearly two years ago now.

He still misses him, still wishes he had the courage to pick up the phone. Still thinks about him every day. Still compares everyone he meets to him. He knows he shouldn’t do that. But he can’t help it. Can’t help that he looks for him around every corner. Can’t help that all of his main characters have curly brown hair and green eyes.

Harry releases his third album as Louis’ second book hits number one on the New York Times Bestseller list, and he goes on tour when Louis is asked to give the graduation address at NYU. Louis buys a ticket for Harry’s show in New York City the second he knows the dates will match up, and he stands in the crowd in the very back of the theatre with a group of teenage girls he thinks might recognize him and he cries. For two hours, he cries. And then it’s the last song and Harry steps up to the microphone.

“Who here has been in love?” he asks. The crowd goes wild. “I have too.” he says with a smile. “Two years ago, nearly three now, actually. I was in Paris with the lads and I met this boy. And he and I fell in love. I never said it. I think we were both too scared. But we both knew. Then I had to leave and our lives went down separate paths, but I wrote him this song. And I recorded it for this album, hoping he would hear. So. Here’s Don’t Let Me Go.”

 

After the first verse, Louis has to leave. Knows he can’t listen to the rest. He takes the next red eye flight from New York to Paris, and stumbles back into his flat thirteen hours later. But suddenly everything there is Harry, Harry, Harry and Louis needs to get out. So he’s stuffing Baxter into his travel crate and throwing clothes into a rucksack and he’s on the next train from Paris to London within two hours. And when he gets to London he transfers to Doncaster and calls a car to bring him back to his childhood home. And it’s three in the morning and he’s knocking on the door and collapsing into his mother’s arms when she answers and he’s crying because he hasn’t slept in over thirty six hours and he misses Harry so badly it hurts. And then he’s laying next to his mother on his old bed and sobbing into her shoulder as she strokes his hair. It reminds him of when he was five and his goldfish died, and then that thought changes to when he was fifteen and got beat up when he came out and she held him while he cried and pressed a cold pack to his eye. He repeats a mantra of “I miss him. I miss him so fucking much.”

He falls asleep on his mother’s shoulder and when he wakes, he’s got four pairs of curious eyes on him. Daisy and Phoebe crawl into his lap while Lottie and Fliss sit on the edge and they ask questions he’s not ready to answer with their facial expressions. So instead of answering, he asks Lottie to fetch him a Harry Potter book, and he reads to them for an hour or so. He always changed his voice for each character, so they loved when he read to them.

He decides to stay in Doncaster for a week, and on the third day he’s there, he’s sitting in a cafe with Baxter in his lap, swatting at his belt under the table while Louis munches on a scone and writes. There’s a table of girls next to him giggling, and it’s only slightly annoying because he’s got this one sentence that he needs to word just right or it’ll be a flop and it’s breaking his concentration. He hears a chair shove back and he thinks they’re leaving, but instead he feels a timid tap on his shoulder.

“Are you Louis Tomlinson?” a quiet voice asks. He smiles and turns in his chair, only to see a pretty girl with long, brown curls standing behind him.

“Depends on who’s asking.” he replies easily.

“Cheeky.” she says with a smile. “I’m Eleanor.”

He gestures to the chair across from him and Baxter peeks out from the edge of the table.

And from that day on, Louis doesn’t think about Harry for ten months. He doesn’t think about him or his green eyes and obscene lips until they literally run into each other at _Tourner la Page, s.v.p_.

 

It’s a Tuesday and Louis is in the stockroom, pulling a list of titles for a display he had created in the front window for the month. It’s quite a large display, and the stack of books he’s holding comes up to just under his eyes. And that means he doesn’t see the floppy swoop of curls darting around the corner he’s turning around, and they hit each other. Hard. And Louis collapses onto the floor and drops all of his books in a huge pile.

“Oh, shit! Sorry, Louis.” an all too familiar voice says. Louis’ breath hitches and he looks up. All he sees is green.

“What are you doing here?” Louis asks as a flash of silver cuts across his vision. Harry is still wearing his key necklace. Louis grips at his own unconsciously and he wants to kiss him. Wants to kiss him so fucking bad.

“Flat hunting.” Harry says with a smile that pulls at Louis’ heart. “My contract with my label and management team is up at the end of the year. And I’m not renewing. I want to move here, to Paris. If you’ll still have me.”

Louis’ jaw drops. His heart stutters. His head spins. And he’s consumed with green and Blue de Chanel and Harry’s slow, deep, manner of speaking. And he’s still so fucking in love with this kid, even after five years. And it’s absolutely destroying him. And the urge to kiss him is completely overpowering his rational thought and he has to take a step back.

“No, Harry.” Louis says, shaking his head. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to show up here after five years and act like nothing’s changed when everything has. You don’t get to think that the world is some fucking romcom when only books and films can pull that off. I write books for fuck sake, I would know. You need to go. Please.”

“Do you still live in the same flat?” Harry asks. Against his better judgement, his head screaming ‘don’t tell this twat a fucking thing’ he nods. “At least let me cook you dinner on Thursday, then. So we can catch up. Then after, I’ll go. I’ll leave you alone. I promise.”

 

The thing about his relationship with Eleanor is that it’s easy. She’s sweet, she’s funny, and she’s like him in more ways than one. He thinks that she’s the exception to his sexuality because apparently, everyone has one (except Zayn but he’s pansexual so in Louis’ mind that doesn’t really count). She’s at university studying politics, and she comes to see him whenever she can, him usually flying her in (or paying her train) on weekends and taking her shopping. Or he flies her in and drives her to his flat and she laughs and asks him why he hasn’t moved yet but he doesn’t want to live anywhere else. And Baxter doesn’t like her all that much, but he’s just a cat, right? What does he know? And the sex is alright, he supposes. He doesn’t like to top when he’s with guys so he’s not all that experienced at it. He prefers the tight stretch and burn that fades into pleasure that leads to the most mind blowing orgasms he’s ever had in his life. But if Eleanor thinks he’s horrible, she hasn’t said anything which she should because he still has to think about Harry to get off. Still has to think about his hands, and the sounds he makes, his hair sweaty and stuck to his forehead. His arms and broad shoulders and skin so soft it’s like silk. The push and pull of his dick inside Louis that starts out gently and then gets harder and faster as he gets closer and closer and Louis becomes a blubbering mess beneath him. Even though it’s been five years and it’s all fading, he still has to go there.

He’s also with her because she’s female and he’s too insecure in himself to come out of the closet. She’s safe. Their relationship is safe. He’s seen as straight and that’s what he wants. For now, at least.

But he loves Eleanor, he does. He’s not really using her if he loves her. The last thing he wants is to use her. He’s just not sure of exactly how he loves her. Doesn’t know if it’s an “oh my god I want to spend the rest of my life with you” way, or a best friend way, or the way a brother loves a sister, but he does have some degree of love and respect for her. So he doesn’t want to just break her heart, even if that’s exactly what he’s doing by letting Harry into his flat that night to cook him dinner. But it’s not his fault that he hasn’t had a really well cooked meal since he visited his mum almost eleven months ago, now. And Harry is a bloody phenomenal cook, so that’s why Louis throws himself down onto his couch to watch football while Harry makes him his favorite dinner and brings it out to sit with him when it’s cooked.

“Fuck that’s delicious.” Louis says after taking a bite of pasta, popping the top on his beer and taking a sip. “So.. What have you been up to?”

“More of the same.” Harry says with a shrug, eating between sips of beer. “Recording, touring. You know. All the perks of being an international pop star.”

“Sounds like you’re living the life.” Louis says, watching the screen as a player from Man U gets tripped and falls to the ground. “Oh come on, ref! That’s the third time! Give him a fucking yellow card for fuck’s sake!”

“I didn’t know you liked footy so much.” Harry says, stuffing a bite of meatball into his mouth. “I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

They eat in silence as the final minutes in the first half of the match tick down to nothing, and Louis realizes that Harry isn’t going to bring up the elephant in the room just as the buzzer for the end of the half goes off. So he sets down his fork and clears his throat as Harry watches an advert for Tesco’s with sudden interest, as if he knows what Louis is going to say next.

“Harry.” Louis says quietly. “Can I just... why did you leave? And not answer my calls, or anything? Like. I thought we could work. Then you were gone and. I didn’t know what to do.”

Harry’s hand stills from where it was pushing pasta around his plate, and he sets his fork down before he looks down at his shoes.

“It wouldn’t have worked.” He says quietly. “I couldn’t give you what I thought you deserved for an extended period of time. So I did what I could with the time I did have. I was scared. I was scared that it was going to start out great, then you were going to realize how fucked up my lifestyle is and then leave. So I risked breaking your heart because I knew that I was going to come back to you before I even left. I came back the second I knew my contract was up because I knew that if I could find you, I’d be able to give you everything and more. That’s part of the reason I didn’t renew, if I’m honest.”

“Don’t do that, Harry.” Louis says, shaking his head. “Don’t make me feel like shit by saying I’m the reason you gave up your career.”

“You’re a part of it, though.” Harry says. “Only a small part, but a part nonetheless. It’s been seven years since I auditioned for X Factor and in that seven years, I’ve released four books, five albums, three perfumes, a line of merchandise with it’s own store, a line of school supplies, been on seven tours... it’s time for it to end, Louis. I’ve had a good run, but I want to settle down, now. With you, Louis. If you’ll still have me.”

“I have a girlfriend.” Louis blurts. And with four words, Harry’s face goes from hopeful to looking like his life has been destroyed. The next few things happen quickly. Harry starts to mumble and he stands, he trips on his way out of the living room and knocks over a framed picture of Louis and Eleanor. It falls to the ground, and the glass shatters, Louis promptly steps on it while he chases Harry to the door, leaving a trail of bloody footprints on his carpet and in the hallway. He trips over Baxter and makes a grab for Harry’s wrist just as he steps out the door, thanking God that it catches. Louis’ eyes are burning with tears and he knows that if he lets Harry go now, he knows the younger man won’t come back.

“Harry please.” he chokes out as Harry tries to pull away from Louis’ grip. He freezes and turns his head slightly. Just enough for Louis to see a tear make it’s way down his cheek. “The first year you were gone, I spent writing my book. Which was about you. The second year you were gone, I was on a book tour in England and America talking about this book that I wrote about you and writing my second book. Not about you this time, but the main character has curly brown hair and bright green eyes. The third year you were gone, I started the publishing process for my second book while writing another with a similar character that ended up being shelved because I can’t finish it. The fourth year was when I saw you in New York. I didn’t think I needed you, but I wanted to see you perform so I got a ticket and I cried the whole concert. I had a break down when I got back here, and took a train home. I met Eleanor, my girlfriend, three days later and we started seeing each other. She numbed the pain of you leaving by a tenfold. You were everywhere and nowhere near where I needed you to be. You left me but you were here all the time, Hazza.”

“I didn’t want to, Lou.” Harry replies quietly. “Please believe me. I was so fucking in love with you, I’m still so fucking in love with you it makes my head spin. I’m sorry for trying to do the noble thing. I just... I promise. It’ll never happen again.”

Louis looks at Harry for a long moment as if he was deliberating on whether he is telling the truth or not before he pulls him close.

“Just kiss me, yeah?”

And Harry does. He surges forward and crushes his lips to Louis’ while walking him backwards down the hall to Louis’ bedroom. Harry is pushing the door open, and this feels like the first time all over again. Dinner on a Tuesday and not planning on sex but having it happen anyway because Louis is just so fucking overwhelmed and the situation is so out of his control that it doesn’t really matter to him, he just knows that he needs Harry as much as a fish needs water. As much as he needs a notebook and a pen. And this is a forever kind of need and he doesn’t want that to change.

So he let’s Harry undress him and suck him off until Louis is close, so, so, so close he tells Harry to stop and to get inside him before he explodes. Harry wastes not time before he’s prepping and inside Louis and Louis still feels like he’s going to explode because the stretch and burn feels like he’s losing his virginity all over again, and he cries out while Harry stills.

“How long, Lou?” Harry asks quietly as his chest presses against Louis’ back and he braces himself on his arms while Louis bites into a pillow, adjusting to feeling so full again.

“With a guy?” he grits out, breathing hard as he tries to relax. Harry nods against his shoulder and Louis grips at Harry’s left wrist, which has fallen to the left of his head. He closes his eyes and feels just a tiny bit embarrassed. “Five years.”

“So that would make me...” Harry pants, his breath hot on Louis’ ear.

“The last one.” Louis says with a nod. “Couldn’t find anyone else worth it. So.. if you don’t mind. Go slow with me, yeah? This is likely to hurt at first.”

“As slow as you need, babe.” Harry affirms. Louis cants his hips ever so slightly and  Harry pulls back and pushes in gently, giving Louis time to get adjusted before he sets a steady rhythm and the room fills with moans, heavy breathing and skin on skin.

When it’s over, Harry pulls Louis close, and Louis hides his face in Harry’s chest. For some reason, he feels as though he’s going to cry. And before he can stop them, the tears are falling and Harry is pulling blankets around their shoulders and holding him close while Louis tries to make his body stop shaking.

“I love you, Louis.” Harry whispers. And Louis barely hears him before he’s falling back to sleep.

 

Friday he has to go pick Eleanor up at the train station, but he can’t seem to want to unravel himself from Harry’s strong arms. But then the reality and the gravity of the situation hits him and he’s pulling away in a rush and heading for the shower. It feels like such dejavu to go through this again, the sting in his bum, the smell of sex that fills the bathroom as it washes down the drain in the shower. It makes him panic. Makes him panic because now he’s no better than his stepfather, who had cheated on his mum when he was eighteen, and that scares him. With last night fresh in his mind, he can’t repress it, and he’s broken a promise to himself. He swore he would never become his stepfather. And without even a second thought, he has. The man in the next room is proof of it.

He sighs and steps out of the shower, wraps a towel around his waist and blows his hair up into it’s usual, soft quiff before he steps out of the bathroom and crosses to his wardrobe. Harry doesn’t wake, not even when Louis trips as he pulls his trousers on, or during Louis’ daily battle with the hanger as he wrestles his favorite blue t-shirt down. Louis doesn’t have the heart to wake him, not just yet. Because Harry has a small, peaceful smile on his face and when he wakes, it’ll be to Louis breaking his heart. So he lets him lie for a few minutes more while he makes himself a cuppa, and then he sits in a chair at the corner of his bedroom. He checks his watch, and sees that he has two hours, so he just observes.

Harry hasn’t changed all that much, it seems. Except maybe there’s more bulk in his arms to go with the increase in ink. When Louis had first met him, there were only five tattoos that could be seen. And now, as Harry shifts and tightens his grip on the pillow he holds to his chest, more stand out clearly against the tan skin and Louis can’t even count them all. He has a pair of swallows splashed across his chest, and a butterfly spread across his abs. There’s a collection of smaller ones on his arms, including quotes, letters, a pingu, and something written in Arabic that Louis wants to know the meaning of. And by his wrist, where a tan line from a watch is settled, there’s a clover, a gemini symbol and a small padlock. He leans closer, just to confirm that it is, in fact, a lock before he sits back. Why? Why a lock? Why any of them? He’s starting to remind Louis of the Illustrated Man, just a little. Take away his paper and pen and his skin becomes his canvas.

Harry shifts onto his stomach, and the blankets fall low on his hips, just above the curve of his ass. Louis knows at that moment he would be completely fine waking up to this every morning for the rest of his life, and that terrifies him. Scares him so much that the first words out of his mouth when Harry blinks up at him are:

“You need to leave.”

He mentally slaps himself and then he remembers that he’s doing what’s best. He has Eleanor. She’s safe. She’s easy to be with. She’s... not Harry.

“No.” Harry says, his voice full of sleep. “Come back to bed, babe. It’s early.”

“It’s nearly noon.” Louis says, forcing himself to keep a fond smile at bay. “I’ve got to go get my girlfriend at the train station in a couple hours.”

“We’ve got plenty of time, then.” Harry says, reaching out for Louis. Louis steps out of his reach, and Harry’s expression turns to confusion. “What? Is it me? Does my breath smell? because I can brush my teeth -”

“Harry, last night shouldn’t have happened.” Louis says quietly. “I have a girlfriend, and it was against my better judgement.”

“Wait, what?” Harry says, his voice still groggy. He shifts a bit and stretches so his back arcs up and his arms flex above his head. “What are you on about? Against your better judgement? Are you serious?”

“It shouldn’t have happened. And you need to go.”

“Can I see you again?” Harry asks, sitting up and looking around for his boxers. Louis points to a spot on the floor. “I came back for you. I kept my promise. I love you. I always have.”

“Maybe five years is too late, Harry. We barely knew each other in the first place.” He’s literally trying anything to make this easier for both of them. He’s also looking anywhere but Harry’s face because he knows that if he looks at Harry, he’ll see all of his emotions reflecting in the younger man’s eyes.

“You know I came back as soon as I could.” Harry says quietly. “I thought I was doing the right thing, but I didn’t know any better. Please, Lou. We can be together now. If you’ll take me back.”

“It’s not that easy for me, Harry.” He replies. “I can’t do high profile. I can’t... that’s why I’m with Eleanor. She’s safe. I love her.”

“And that’s why you let me fuck you last night, right?” Harry says, standing up and pulling on his trousers. “You can’t honestly tell me that you love her after that. You wanted it. You were begging for it.”

“Just because I wanted it doesn’t mean it should have happened! You're not allowed to do this. Show back up in my life when I'm happy and make me fall for you again. No. I couldn't go through it anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can't do high profile. Not when I'm not open about myself like you are.”

“Is this- is this really about that louis?” Harry says, hesitating and pulling his shirt on. “You seemed pretty open to me with who you are. And I'll be with you this time. I'll help you through whatever.”

“You weren't there for five years. Why should I believe you now? Especially when you’ll get sick of hiding your relationship. You would get tired of me and get miserable and leave because you'd be keeping secrets.”

“Fine.” Harry says, fully dressed now. “You’re making this more complicated than it needs to be. Stay in the goddamn closet forever for all I care, it won't change the fact that you love me and I love you and we could be so happy. You don't need to keep it a secret forever.”

“Yes, I do.” Louis says, and why won’t Harry just understand? Why doesn’t he remember about the times he’s told Harry why he doesn’t want to come out? Why he’s not ready for the world to know. Why doesn’t he remember about the all the times Louis had told him about different people beating him up back in Donny? He says he loves Louis, but if he loved Louis, surely he would remember that? Something that was so traumatic that he moved out of the country to a place people don’t care? “I'm not coming out. I'm not ready. You pressuring me isn't going to help.”

“I’m not pressuring you.” Harry says as he throws his hands up in the air. “Lou it's not that big of a deal! You walk into an interview, say you’re gay and then take what comes! I’ll be here for you every step of the way! You won’t go at this alone!”

“Easy for you to say.” Louis mutters, folding his arms across his chest and kicking the carpet with his toe.

“Because being one of the first openly bi-sexual popstars is a bloody Sunday stroll through the park!”

“That’s not how I meant it and you know it!” Louis says, and he’s irritated now. He’s so bloody fucking irritated and his head is flashing “Danger, Danger, Danger!” but his heart is shouting ‘Don’t let him go now, you twat! You need him!’ “You're more secure in yourself than I am, okay! God, Harry! Sorry we all can't be just like you!”

“Louis you're being ridiculous, you're beautiful and funny and smart and a goddamn brilliant, not to mention successful as shit writer. What do you need to be more secure? What's wrong if you'd rather be with me than your little girlfriend? Nothing's going to change by hiding behind a girl you're not in love with.”

“Don’t pretend you know anything about my relationship, because you don’t! You don’t know anything about it!”

“I don’t know her. But, five years or not, I do know you, Louis.” Harry says. “You think I don’t. But I do. I knew you a week and I felt like I knew you my entire life. But you don’t even know yourself.”

And that hurts. That’s the final straw, and Louis needs Harry to leave right now before he completely breaks down in front of him. He doesn’t like to break down, especially when the cause of the breakdown is standing less than two feet away and is completely right.

“If you don't have anything nice to say just leave okay?” he says quietly, just to ensure his voice won’t break. “God. I was fine without you.”

“I’ll go when you can look me in the eye and tell me you’re not still in love with me, and you want me to go.”

“You realize you’re being a bigger dick than Gatsby, right now?”

“So you're comparing you and your girlfriend to Tom and Daisy?” Harry says with a dry laugh. He rolls his eyes. “One of the greatest unhappy marriages in literature? Telling, love, that’s telling. And you still haven't said it.”

Louis bites his lip as his eyes burn. “Just go away, Harry. Please. Just go.”

Harry pauses for a minute, and Louis stares down at his shoes.

“Right.” Harry finally says. “I’m sorry for.. Yeah... I just. I hope you know what you’re doing, yeah? And I think I’m always going to love you... So. Yeah. Bye, Louis.”

Harry leaves, and that’s when Louis lets himself break down. But he only cried for ten minutes before he is pulling on his jacket, tucking Baxter in his pocket (this was problematic for a while, but when Louis made it big, he just had all of his pockets altered so the cat could still travel everywhere with him) and he sets off to the train station.

He greets Eleanor with a forced smile and a kiss, and if she notices, she doesn’t mention it as they turn and head back down the street. It starts to rain gently as Louis parks in the garage under his building, and Baxter pokes his head out of his pocket before retreating back with a hiss.

“That cat really doesn’t like me.” Eleanor says with a quiet laugh. “I don’t know what I’ve done to him, though?”

“Maybe it’s because you call him ‘that cat’.” Louis replies, going for teasing but ending up sounding like a complete arse. “Sorry, babe. It was a long night last night.”

“Were you up all night writing again?”

He pauses. “Something like that.”

“I know it’s your job and all, but you should at least get some sort of rest.” she says with a smile as he takes her bag out of the backseat and leads her to the elevator. She swings their joined hands together between them and he sighs. Her hands are too small.

“Well.” Louis says, trying to keep the feeling of Harry’s hands running down his arms while he dragged his fingernails down Harry’s back out of his mind. Tries to stop their moans from playing over and over in his head. It’s nearly impossible for him, and he has to take a breath to calm himself before he unlocks the door to his flat. He had had the handle changed to a keypad about a year after he published his first book. “When you get in a groove, you can’t just stop writing. It doesn’t work like that. You have to keep going until you’re so exhausted you have nothing left to give. Sometimes beyond that.”

He mentally slaps himself when he realizes what he had just strung together had such a double meaning and he definitely should not be allowed to leave the house after a night of mind blowing sex. He should only be allowed to stay in bed and have even more mind blowing sex with a willing partner. However, he was missing at the moment, and it was Louis’ fault. So.

 

On Monday when Eleanor leaves, he finally decides that it’s time to strip the sheets from his bed and bring them down to the laundry room. Three days of sex kind of made them start to smell, and he needs clean sheets or else he won’t sleep well. He hops up onto the washing machine after he stuffs the sheets in, and runs his hands through his hair. He needs to figure this out. Needs to.

On one hand, he has Eleanor. He’s been with her for ten months, and he loves her. In some amount, even if he’s not so sure about how large the amount is. She’s safe. He doesn’t have to worry about people finding out he’s gay when he’s with her. Doesn’t have to worry about the backlash and hate he’s going to get. He wants the ease that comes with their relationship, even if he does get tired of hiding on occasion. He’s confident, but he’s not willing to deal with people being constantly rude to him. With Eleanor, he doesn’t deal with that. She’s an average girl dating a writer. He’s not gay. He’s just Louis.

But then there’s Harry. And that’s all that he can think when he thinks about him. He’s just Harry. His Harry. Someone who came back for him after five years, just as he promised. Even though he left and he shouldn’t have, he still came back. And that says something about him. That says that he keeps promises and dedicates himself to a person and Louis admires that. There’s also the fact that when Louis looks five years into the future, he sees himself waking up and falling asleep with Harry, sees himself raising a family with him, one of the kids his, and the other Louis’. Hopefully from the same mum so they were at least half siblings. And that’s all he needs to make his ultimate decision of knowing that he’s going to end up with Harry one way or another, but he’s still afraid. And Harry still put pressure on him to come out. Something that he’s not ready for yet. He’s not sure if he ever will be.

He hops off the washing machine and stuffs his sheets into a drier before he heads back down the hallway, only to see his little neighbor standing outside, directing movers as they carry her possessions out of her flat. She shouts rapid French at them, and her white, candy-floss hair flies in every direction as she waves her arms in every direction. He knits his brow in confusion, and walks up behind her just as she spins in his direction.

“ _Où vas-tu_?” he asks. She smiles at him brightly and replies in rapid french, only showing how excited she is to be going wherever it is she’s going.

“A lovely young man stopped by Friday morning.” she says. “He offered me two million euros for my flat, and told me he has a studio apartment in London that I can have. It’s a miracle from God, Louis. A miracle.”

She points to the ceiling with a smile as the last box is moved out of her flat, and Louis is still extremely confused. Who the fuck would pay two million euros for a flat that was shittier than his own? He had been over there multiple times for tea and he seriously didn’t know how it passed building inspection. There’s exposed pipes along the ceiling, half the floorboards are rotted through, there’s no heat, no hot water... and yet someone paid two million euros for it? Who in their right mind -

“Well, hello neighbor. Fancy seeing you here.” A familiar voice says. There’s a hint of a smirk and Louis turns slowly.

“Are you joking me?” he says, incredulous when he sees the shock of curls and the smug, stubborn smile splitting the younger man’s face. “I’m serious. Are you actually fucking joking me right now?”

“Funny how this works out.” Harry says with a smirk. “I had absolutely no idea that you live across the hall. How convenient.”

“You fucking asshole.” Louis hisses. “You did this on purpose, you twat!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Harry says before stepping around Louis and entering the flat. “This could be absolutely lovely, with a bit of paint!”

And Louis is seriously going to go kill himself now. Or at least throw himself out a window. Since he lives on the third floor, he won’t die. But he’ll have a couple broken bones and he can deal with that.

What he can’t deal with is the fact that Harry is playing a game. Like he knows what the fuck he’s doing. Knows that it’s torturing Louis to watch him walk up and down the halls in nothing but joggers. Watching him smile and make friends with all the neighbors and pose for pictures with some of the younger girls and their friends. Louis knows that he’s loving it. Absolutely loves whatever he’s trying to do. The bright smile on his face is enough to prove it, and by the end of the second day, Louis learns his schedule enough to know when Harry is in the building, or leaving it so he can avoid confrontation. Not that he’s been spying on the lad. He definitely hasn’t been (But, he will admit to googling Harry and seeing the words “manwhore” splashed all over the page, if that helps.).

Except he totally has been. Tuesday, he watches Harry install a new door and ends up coating his own door in ribbons of spunk while he watches the tendons in Harry’s arms flex, watches his strong shoulders ripple under the fabric of his thin, white t-shirt, watches him bite his lower lip in concentration while his brow fills with sweat. Wednesday Harry goes out with an empty cart and comes back two hours later with a basket full of paint from a DIY store. He leaves again an hour later, and then returns with his cart full of groceries. And yeah, Louis is spying. He won’t admit it though. He hasn’t stooped low enough that he spies on Harry through the peephole. He doesn’t, he couldn’t. And he definitely isn’t still stupid for him. Not at all.

Louis tries not to make a routine out of this, but it happens without his volition and Thursday night, he’s pressed up against the door again, watching through the peephole when Baxter swats at his leg and stares up at him.

“I’m not spying, Bax!” Louis says, still pressed up against the door.

Harry emerges from his door in a pair of white shorts and a white snapback and no shirt and Louis has to take a breath and a step away from the door to compose himself before looking again because fuck he looks good. Harry looks down the hall to his left and a smile lights up his face, and Louis’ heart skips before it breaks when he watches Harry embrace a tall, slender man with a quiff. Harry talks with him for a moment and invites him in before the door snaps shut and Louis sinks to the floor.

“He’s found someone.” Louis says quietly. Baxter taps him on the knee with his paw and Louis scratches behind his ears. “Well. Two can play at that game. Wait until he sees Eleanor tomorrow.”

 

As they say in 21 Jump Street (the film, not the television show) Eleanor is ‘dressed to the nine’ when Louis picks her up at the train station the next morning. She’s wearing a scoop neck black shirt, a high waisted white skirt and aviator sunglasses, and Louis thinks she looks beautiful. Just because he’s gay doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate a girl like her. And he definitely appreciates the fact that she is about to make his ex whatever-he-was spunk in his trousers because she looks so bloody good. He also knows that they’re going to walk in right as Harry steps outside his door to go to the mailboxes. And that is his plan. To catch him as he leaves, torture him a bit, and then go to his apartment and spend the weekend with his girlfriend and not thinking about Harry Styles.

If only the fates weren’t so cruel.

Because he definitely isn’t expecting Eleanor to be the one that almost wets themselves when Harry steps out the door. But she’s squealing and flailing and hitting Louis on the arm repeatedly while Baxter pokes his head out of Louis’ pocket.

“Louis.” Eleanor hisses into his ear. “That’s Harry Styles. You didn’t tell me he was your neighbor!”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal?” Louis asked. “I mean. I don’t really talk to him. He only moved in a few days ago-”

“Louis!” Harry says, a bright smile on his face. And Louis actually wants to kill him. He’s acting like they’re mates when they’re supposed to be fighting, and Louis is supposed to be making him jealous. But Louis does see his smile falter when Harry looks at Eleanor, so. He can take a small victory in that. But as soon as it falters, it’s back and Harry is looking at them both brightly again. “Haven’t seen you in a while, mate. You been alright? Who’s this beautiful girl? She can’t be Eleanor, can she? Your descriptions never did her any justice, if it is.”

Eleanor giggles and Louis doesn’t know who he wants to slap more, Harry, her or himself. Harry is such a god damned fucking charmer and it annoys the shit out of him. And then Harry fucking winks at him. Winks.

“He’s told you about me?” Eleanor asks, completely flattered as her grip shifts from Louis’ bicep down to his wrist, finally lacing their fingers. She giggles.

“Only that you’re sweet, funny and completely gorgeous. But, I think beautiful is the actual word here. Gorgeous doesn’t do you any justice, darling.” And he’s openly flirting with Louis’ girlfriend and the only thing Louis is thinking is “this fucker. Says he loves me then openly flirts with someone right in front of me? And what about that guy he brought home? He’s sick and playing games with my head and I’m glad I got out of this.”

“--dinner at mine. Tonight at six?” Harry says. That’s when Louis decides to come back into the conversation. And fuck all if Eleanor doesn’t squeal and agree for them before Louis even realizes what’s happening.

Louis finds himself in Harry’s flat at six that evening, after a desperate attempt of faking ill and trying to make it seem as though Baxter can’t be left alone for more than a few hours, Eleanor has dragged him over and they’re sitting at Harry’s table while Harry cooks Louis’ favorite.

Go figure. That asshole.

Eleanor has to go to the bathroom almost the instant they get into the apartment, and Louis doesn’t understand why she just didn’t go before they left. But then he realizes that it’s probably to spy on the rest of Harry’s shitty little flat that isn’t as shitty and Louis remembers. The pipes are still exposed along the ceiling, but it looks a bit more like a home now. He’s even taken his collection of polaroids and lined them up along the wall in his living room. Louis just hopes that a pipe doesn’t break and ruin all of them. He knows how much Harry loves them.

“If you’re doing this to win me back, being an ass isn’t helping your case.” Louis says, and yeah. He’s been mentally slapping himself a lot lately.

“I haven’t the slightest idea of what you’re talking about, love.” Harry says, pulling three wine glasses down from his cupboard and placing them on the table, pulling out a bottle of white wine. “I am a bit disappointed you didn’t bring Bax along, though. I’ll make him a plate.”

“Harry, cut the shit okay.” Louis says, folding his arms over his chest. “I know your game. I’ve Googled you.”

“Should I be flattered, or worried?” Harry asks with a cheeky smile as he moves around his kitchen with ease, stirring pasta sauce and pouring wine like it’s second nature. It probably is second nature for him, if Louis thinks about it.

“Well, since the only thing I could find was ‘manwhore’ no matter how hard I searched, I would say worried.”

Louis swears he sees Harry’s shoulders slouch just a couple inches before he turns to look at him. His eyes are sad and his voice is quiet when he says:

“You keep reading those tabloids, they are known for their unbiased truth.”

His voice is so sad that Louis recoils for a moment before regaining his composure and settling back into his chair. He doesn’t realize how the words sting, how badly they hurt Harry. Even though his emotions are written clearly on his face.

“"Well. You know. I don't know you. I would have thought my Harry would have taken the hint when I said go away. But he moved in across the hall instead."

"If you'd have thought I'd give up so easily, maybe you didn't ever know me at all. Then again, you don't even know yourself."

"This isn't about that. This is about you being creepy." Louis says indignantly. Harry smirks.

“It’s not creepy. It’s dedication.” Harry says with a cheeky smile. “More dedicated than you are, apparently.”

"I'm dedicated. Just not to you at the moment. Not everything is about you."

"So you're dedicated to whatever's easiest for you to be dedicated to. How noble."

"You're a dick, you know that, right?"

"Don't worry, the tabloids made that clear."

"Quite clear, actually."

They share a cold glare with each other as the toilet flushes and Eleanor comes back into the room with a pleasant smile on her face, completely unaware of what had just happened. She sits down next to Louis and takes his hand in hers, and he presses a kiss to her lips with a sideways glance at Harry. Harry’s eyes narrow and he wheels around, lifting the pan of spaghetti sauce off of the stove and setting it on a hot plate.

“So, you’re like.. famous.” Eleanor says and Louis forces himself not to roll his eyes. He’s going to add that to his Brilliant Ways to Start a Conversation 101 textbook he’s writing with the help of this girl, he swears. Some of the things she says.

Harry just quirks a brow and nods. “Yes, I am.”

“So you have like. A lot of money.”

That’s going into the “Questions too Personal and too Stupid to Ever Think of Asking a Person You’ve Only Just Met Four Hours Ago” chapter.

Harry nods and glances at Louis, like he’s asking for a translation, or a map to where these questions are leading. Louis shrugs because at this point, Harry’s guesses are as good as his.

“Why did you pick this place, then?” Eleanor says. “Like. You could live anywhere in Paris, and you choose the shittiest one? That doesn’t really make much sense, does it?”

Harry shrugs, and sends a smirk towards Louis, who is now drinking his wine in big gulps.

“I admire the view.” He says, his voice low and lust filled. Louis chokes on his mouthful of wine, and shoves his chair back.

“Fuck you, Harry!”

He barely hears Eleanor’s rushed, confused apology as he storms out of the apartment and into his own, slamming the door behind him and snatching Baxter up into his arms. He crosses his apartment, raging, and slams the door to his bedroom closed, flipping the lock and laying down under the blankets. Baxter cuddles right up next to him on his usual spot next to Louis’ head, and Louis sighs before completely breaking down while Eleanor pounds on the door.

“Louis!” she calls, her voice on the edge between desparate and panicking. She knows what Louis is like when he’s closed off like this. “Louis, babe. Open the door. Please? Talk to me, okay? Why were you so rude to Harry?”

“I’m gay.” he blurts. The banging on his door immediately stops and he sighs. “I’m gay and Harry and I were sort of in love five years ago and I was never really over him but I thought I was and that’s why I’ve been acting so horrible and strange and I’m sorry because you deserve so much more than I can give you even though I really love you and I really just want you to be happy okay so if you want you can stay here for tonight but I’ll pay your ticket back to Manchester for the morning train.”

He says that all in a rush and suddenly, Eleanor is in his room, curling up against him and holding him close. He turns his head towards her and she holds a bobby pin up into his line of vision. That’s how she got in.

“I’m here for you, Loubear.” she says quietly.

“You’re taking this rather well.” he says, fighting to keep his voice calm.

“Actually, I’m freaking out a bit.” she replies with a laugh. “Because I just found out the man I’m in love with just so happens to be gay. But.. You are who you are, right? So there’s no point in me being angry with you, or trying to change it or arguing. But I think it’s best if I go home in the morning, still. You need to sort yourself out.”

Louis just nods and Baxter taps his nose with his paw twice. Louis forces a soft smile, and he lays awake all night trying to work out what had happened in the past few days. How easily Harry had managed to slip back into his life and his daily thoughts and even though he spent most of his time loathing him for it, he thinks that this was something that had happened to test him. Test him and his heart to see if he would come up with the correct decision. And by the time morning comes, he thinks he’s making the right one and that’s how he finds himself slipping a note under Harry’s door that says “Meet me at the lock at two pm. bring tea or i’ll change my mind. x lou.”

Eleanor is a lot worse off than she was the night before, though. She’s crying and not letting him hug her. She’s saying he can’t be gay because they had sex before, and he doesn’t tell her that sex with a woman and sex with a man aren’t all that different. She’s yelling at him, telling him that he used her, and he’s just shaking his head before she storms out of his flat and down to the cab he called for her without a final goodbye. That was still less of a reaction than he had expected, but it wasn’t as scary as the night before. He had been terrified the night before when she took it so well.

 

Harry is already waiting at the lock. He’s seated on the ground, dressed in a black pea coat and black jeans, with two mugs of tea and a brown paper bag. He looks up when he hears Louis’ footsteps and his expression is unreadable. Louis just sighs and sits down in front of him, his legs crossed. Harry holds the bag out to him, and Louis takes it, smiling when he sees that a croissant and nutella are what’s inside. He offers some to Harry and he shakes his head in response. Louis shrugs and digs in.

“So why am I here, Louis?” Harry asks quietly. “Are you here to tell me that I need to leave again? Because I’m not going to, no matter how many times you ask me. You’re too important to me, and even if I can’t have you as a boyfriend or even a lover, I’ll have you as a friend. I promised myself that years ago, really.”

“Two months, Harry.” Louis says quietly. He knows he’s going to have to offer more of an explanation later, but for now this is all he wants. He wants Harry to be is, and this is how he knows to do it. “Give me two months to figure out how this being in a relationship shit works. And if everything is going well, I’ll come out. I swear. And for god’s sake, move into my flat. My place is shit, but yours is far worse. Even with the paint.”

Harry smiles, then.  It’s soft, but it’s there. And Louis leans into him, rests his head on Harry’s shoulder, and closes his eyes. This is a beginning, he decides. Just a beginning of a new chapter in a novel he has yet to finish.

 

On their first month anniversary, Harry leads Louis to the Lock Bridge, and they toss their key necklaces into the water below before going out to dinner and to a film. They tell each other that they love one another for the first official time, and that’s that. On their second month anniversary, they go to _Le Louvre_ and get a photograph of them kissing inside the glass pyramid entrance. Louis posts the photo to twitter, Facebook and Instagram with the caption “Happy two months, babe. Feels like only yesterday you were buying Game of Thrones from my bookshop. I love you @harry_styles  <3 #bestboyfriendever #itsthecurls”.

The first two months after Louis comes out to everyone are just what he suspected. A lot of people send hateful letters to his editor, but she bins them. The comments never get to him, and when someone makes a comment on the street, Harry kisses it away that night and Louis realises that as long as he has Harry nothing can touch him. He's unsinkable and Harry provides him a strength he never realised he had until he's lying next to a body with curls and green eyes that smile at him in the morning and kiss him goodnight at the end of each day.

And before he knows it, another five years pass, and these ones are definitely happier than the last. They’re beautiful, happy, sex filled years with friends and books and interviews thrown into the mix and Louis loves every second of every passing day. Harry moves in with him, and the spare room becomes an office-slash-music room where each of them can go there when they need a bit of space and time alone with their passion.

Harry plays acoustic gigs at Louis’ shop on a makeshift stage they set up after he made the move to Paris permanent every Thursday, while Louis listens and works. Sometimes they have a full house and Louis makes his sales goal for the day quite easily, and other times Harry only plays for Louis. But, they’ll both admit, they like when it’s just the two of them in the shop. Harry goofs off more freely with his guitar and Louis can take a break from shelving for a proper snog before Harry keeps playing.

Other times, interviewers come in and talk to each of them individually. While the world knows about the nature of their relationship, they like to keep it as private as possible, and they had both agreed that couples interviews and photoshoots were strictly off limits. So Louis will listen to Harry talk, and it’s not that hard, really. Louis could listen to the slow, deep voice all day if he could. And the interviewer will ask questions about a reunion tour and if Harry is happy where he is. Harry always gives the same responses, and it’s nice. It’s just nice to have him there, in Louis’ life, in the one place that’s both theirs and the public’s. _Rolling Stone_ commented on the shop in one of the articles they wrote, calling it “a rustic, quaint shop that seems to fit the couple and their personas” and Louis is rather chuffed at that. It took him ten years to get the shop to where it was now, and he loves it. Spends all his remaining energy on it, makes it more beautiful every day. Hangs flowers on the windows, deadheads them, sweeps the sidewalk every morning, afternoon and night.. he works hard to keep it up to snuff.

Sometimes interviewers come looking for him as well, even though it’s not as frequently as they come for Harry. Most of them ask about his next novel and when it’s going to be finished, what the basic plot is about, and if he can confirm that his first novel was at least dedicated to Harry, even though everyone pretty much knows it was. They ask when his next book is going to be published and he tells them that he hopes within the year and that he actually has a spot on the Ellen Show to talk about it in two weeks time. That’s when he brings up the fact that Harry and his mates are playing a reunion gig in Las Vegas the same week of Louis’ interview so it’s going to be a proper lads week. Harry just smiles from where he’s playing the opening chords to one of his songs and shakes his head. Louis sings along softly when Harry starts the song for the few people in the shop and the interviewer comments on how adorable the two of them are. Louis just blushes.

 

The fact that Harry has a gig in Las Vegas in two weeks time means that all the lads have moved in with them, and that Louis’ office-slash-music room has become a rehearsal-slash-recording studio-slash-hotel room. They’ve decided to play a lot of their older material and some of the stuff that they had never recorded, which they record and release on a digital EP on the band’s website. Louis loves having the lads there, he really does. He loves all of them and it’s fun to have them, but he swears that if he has to hear their cover of _Love Me Do_ one more time he might just jump out of a window. And he loves the Beatles but he can only take so much. He’s only human.

He gets home from the bookshop to hear the lads in the living room, shouting at the telly because Brazil is beating Spain in the Confederation Cup Final, and Harry is cooking tacos. Louis pauses to set his bag down and look into the living room at the polaroid wall (which Harry thought would be better than wallpaper or paint because he had a bunch of polaroid pictures and ‘everywhere you look, you see something different and you can’t possibly look at each and every one of them without forgetting something’) before he steps into the kitchen. He walks up behind Harry, who is standing at the stove top, wearing only joggers. His shoulders flex as he scrapes the pan of taco meat into a bowl and Louis smiles, wraps his arms around Harry’s waist and breathes the younger man in.

“Well hello there, love.” Harry says with a smile as a massive amount of shouting erupts from across the hall. “You’re home early.”

“Felt like closing shop a few hours before I’m supposed to.” Louis says, pressing a kiss to Harry’s shoulder. “It was slow, and I would rather be here.”

“Sap.” Harry says with a smirk. “I’m glad you’re home, though. I need you to check and make sure everything we need is packed, and that you have the proper flights booked from Vegas to LA.”

Louis nods and sighs. He’s tired. He wants a cuddle. And like, fifteen tacos. But mostly a cuddle.

“I can’t believe it’s Tuesday.” Harry says with a content smile. “Our first actual show in five years is on Tuesday. That’s insane. And we sold it out, after five years. That’s even more insane. Incredible even.”

“Well. The Jonas Brothers did it.” Louis says with a smile. “They probably think you’re going to make a new album and then do a reunion tour and whatever the three of them did.”

“None of that is in my immediate plans, though. So you don’t have to worry about it.”

 

The fact that Louis is dating someone in a band definitely has it’s perks, because he gets to stand at the side of the stage and take instagrams and vines and everyone loves it when he captions them with stupid little things like “I’m dating an idiot” or “My boy <3”. He generally just puts smiley faces, though. Unless he feels like being obnoxious. That’s when his captions get wordy. And sometimes he even writes little blurbs to go with a picture of the two of them. Some made up scenario that serves as a writing prompt for him. Harry loves it, and says “You’re writing fanfiction about us. That’s so cute.” And the posts get like, a billion notes on tumblr and it’s just lovely.

So that’s what he finds himself doing the entire concert. Live tweeting/instagramming/vining from Harry’s account. He hasn’t personally made any of those accounts for himself, only a twitter and a tumblr. Harry has more of a following than he does, even though Louis is a certified Nerdfighter and he’s got that whole “famous author” status as well. Harry still has nearly twenty million people following him, so Louis just likes to use his account. Plus he likes when the fans all tweet “oh no. @Louis_Tomlinson is on @Harry_Styles’ account again.” And vice versa, the few times Harry has hacked into his account. He likes that the fans have become so accepting of the two of them together. He likes everything about where his life is at the moment.

And he especially likes it when he finds himself in a marriage chapel at two in the morning with a slightly drunk Harry down on one knee while Louis nurses a beer he had carried outside of Caesar’s Palace even though he wasn’t supposed to. Louis immediately nods while Harry makes a slightly slurred speech, telling him that he knew they were going to get married the moment they met in the bookshop and Louis asked him if he had had sex before. Ten years had gone by and the lad still remembered everything he had told Louis that day, still remembered thinking he was the one. And that he loves Louis so much it hurts in a good way, and then they’re running to a supermarket and buying rings out of the quarter machines that remarkably fit them before Harry promises he’ll buy them real rings when they go back home. By three, Louis is a married man, and by four, he and Harry are making slow, sweet love as the sun comes up.

He’s on a plane by eleven, and he’s landing in Los Angeles by twelve. He presses a soft kiss to Harry’s hair before he leaves, tells him he’ll be back, and that’s that. By one he’s sitting in a chair on the Ellen show. He’s signed one hundred advanced copies of his new book as gifts for the audience, and he’s intending to sign for a few hours after the show, but for now he’s completely focused on what’s going on around him. People are cheering as he steps out onto the stage and crosses, does a little dance with Ellen and sits. She greets him with a smile and he tells her it’s good to be back before she starts asking questions about the book and he can’t answer all of them because he wants people to read it, but he gives the best answers he can.

“So. Your boyfriend had a show last night in Las Vegas, and that’s where you came from.” Ellen says, Louis nods. “I was following quite closely on instagram and twitter because I am one of his fourteen million followers and I am a fan and I happened to see this.”

An awkward selfie of Louis pops up on the screen. It’s from when he was out in the front row and Harry was at center stage. He had managed to get a picture of himself with wide eyes and a dopey smile while Harry pulled an awkward dance move on the stage behind him.

“I take it you’re also a fan?” Ellen says. The audience laughs.

“I mean. Not really.” Louis says with a grin. “I just like showing up at his concerts, taking awkward selfies on his iPhone and uploading them to his twitter while I sing along to every song and make all the girls jealous. I'm like one of those creepy stalker groupies, you know?” He flicks his hair out of his eyes, still smiling. Then he takes a breath and swallows. “And. He’s not my boyfriend anymore. I know what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas but. Breaking news. I’m a married man now. As of three this morning.”

The audience explodes and Louis feels this rush in his chest and his smile doubles in size because Harry is his now. Officially. He is Louis Styles-Tomlinson, and Harry is Harry Styles-Tomlinson and their lives together are just beginning.

He checks his text messages after the show and while there are quite a few in his inbox, Harry’s is the only one that he really cares about.

 

**From: Hazzaboo <3**

Woke up to see “StylinsonIsFOREVER” trending on twitter, so I did a bit of searching and have just now seen the video clip from the interview today. I love you so much, LouBear, and I’m so proud of you, words can’t even begin to describe. I’ll see you when you get back, babe. I love you xx.

 

Louis smiles and takes a screenshot of the text before he’s getting into a car and driving to the airport to go back to Vegas.

 

Harry is asleep when Louis gets back and Louis briefly wonders if this is what he did when he had days off on tour. There are two open takeaway boxes on the desk though, so at least he’s eaten.

He snaps a picture of Harry, who is sprawled out in bed, wearing a pair of coca-cola pajama bottoms and his Ramones shirt (backwards) and he tweets it with the caption “hubby is so tired from last night he can’t even dress himself properly. #imarriedanidiot.” before he climbs into bed next to him and nudges their noses together. Harry blinks his eyes open and smiles sleepily.

“Hello, Mr. Styles-Tomlinson.” he says, voice groggy as he pulls Louis close by the waist and presses a sloppy kiss to his forehead. Louis smiles and wrinkles his nose with a giggle. Harry makes him feel like such a fucking school girl and he absolutely loves it. After ten years, nothing has changed.

“Hello, hubby.”


End file.
